Iron Fists and Poor Companions
by LittleLovesaLot
Summary: The night shift is a foreign world and only rude fools start havoc before dawn. It's a hard life, but it sure beats sanding cedar caskets during war.


Hello, I'm on a One Piece kick and quite a few of my favorite stories have been removed like Fisherwoman and When the Phoenix Stuck his head in the Potato Bag, so I thought I'd give this a try. Please tell me if I got anything wrong/need to improve, or if you just like it. I have a rough idea of where I want to go with this story.

I don't own One Piece.

* * *

Chapter 1: The Perseverance of a Child and the Grace of an Angel

Lorelle Island was an autumn land, chilled and had a constant breeze. The trees bore golden leaves. Corn and potatoes were the only crops strong enough to break through the stiff ground. Through the timbers, a town was raised from the fallen wood on the southern side of the island. While the residents weren't especially profitable with the lumber business, trade from the bordering islands allowed them to manage without worry.

War had no place on the island. Lorelle burned all the same. 

"It was a lone triggerman who was picking us off between the trees. He took down six men before we realized it," the soldier wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Communication went down three days ago so we didn't even realize that there was still Mono Lai men on the island."

She had to crane her neck to get an eyeful of the man and Monáe though he looked ready to tear himself apart from guilt. She tried to pull her lips into something that could resemble comfort. The soldier breathed sharply, pulling himself together. "Seven coffins. Basic set up."

The curly haired girl nodded, writing down the number on an order form. "Any inscriptions? Names? Would you like a funeral service? It includes flowers and at least three in attendance as witness as the person- persons are sent off."

Historians would later be able to analyze the growing trends of aggression between two land masses that bordered Lorelle. There was no surprise when the violence creeped over the tree lined shores. Monáe was born an ocean away from peace and was fast as sin.

Gunshots sounded off from beyond the barricades. The girl opted to keep her hard hat pulled lower over her face.

Disconnected to the world, the man didn't so much as look in the direction of the gun discharge, "Ahh…no. They wouldn't want to be buried _here_."

He scowled, stepping away from the girl as if she represented everything that had to do with the miserable, shredded rock he was stationed on. It was common place for soldiers to show disdain for Lorelle. They were- after the war began- the main reason for the residents to depart. Anger. Blame. Re-stationing.

Only the unlucky were placed on Lorelle. Monáe didn't feel especially unlucky, though.

Undismayed, Monáe pushed forward. She would never let it be said that she couldn't make a sale without trying. She showed a soft smile, gently touching the man's hand, noticing how he flinched at the contact. The fighting had started less than a year before she her tenth birthday. Two years ago to the day. Most inhabitants worth their salt had hastily left. Their homes abandoned to the elements and stray explosives, and their neighbors scattered to the winds. Yet, as human nature often allows, in the rubble and shadows, there were those who thrived. "I know these are trying times, but a proper burial makes all the-"

"No," he interrupted. "I know my men. They're not about to be cast aside for a convenient-"

Monáe flinched violently as her sight went black and her grip on the man faltered. Her brain barely processed the _ping_ as the bullet ricocheted off the concreate walls and cut off the speaking officer. She had seen dead men litter the streets, but not seeing… not seeing was worse.

The panic came in waves. She felt her island shift under her boots and she fell to her knees, unbalanced.

She used the back of her hand to frantically rub off the wetness that covered her face. Smoke was infiltrating her nose and, though the world was blurry, she could see the end of the hallway had caved in. The quakes halted momentarily, allowing the girl to take a breath. Over the rubble a man with darker skin- darker than her own- rounded the unblocked corner and came stumbling towards her.

"Captain! The captain's down!" he called. Monáe would normally feel bad for the man because no one could possibly hear him over the encroaching gunfire. But she was shaking so much. She could barely lift her order form.

"He's dead," her voice was surprisingly steady. Her eyes were downcast. "But I still need a signature for this order form."

The man finally looked at her. The familiar look of panic and adrenalin filled his eyes. "What the hell're you doing here? Civilians left months ago."

"Coffin orders," she said. Not _all_ the civilians left. There were some who blatantly refused to or couldn't. _Out of sight, out of mind._

Unease filled the man and he reached to grab the fallen captain's body only for another blast to hit the building. Ruble from the caved in hallway was beginning to shift and then roll towards them, keen on burying anything that stood in its way. It was time to leave.

Muscle memory was a beautiful thing. Monáe found herself in a crouch, muscles bunched and her left leg kicking off the ground- and she was gone. Her feet darted towards any viable exit, leaving the living marine like a bad memory, in the past. She was wonderfully fast, darting around the falling debris. The ground vibrated again, but this time she was ready and braced herself against the wall waiting for the tremors to pass.

Ahead of her, she could see a hole in the wall overlooking the main town, rows upon rows of cedar buildings designed in a circular layout. The center of it all, reaching above the municipality, was the symbol of Lorelle. The red wood clock tower. It looked like the only usable exit. There was a steep drop from the newly added doorway, with a strong possibility of twisting both her ankles. She swallowed a large gulp of air, her mouth very dry, and took a readying two steps back before-

-an arm wrapped around her middle and she was being picked up like stolen baggage. The dark soldier towered over her- sweat and tears mixing on his face. "We can't stop. This place is crumbling under our feet."

The fort jolted alarmingly to the side. Oh heck. Oh heck. _Oh heck_. "You've got to slow down!" she clung desperately to his uniform. "You'll get thrown off balance and fall."

The man paid her no mind. He seemed to talk to himself. "I'm not dying in this hell hole."

 _Seriously. What was up with people thinking her island was trash?_

With an impressive leap and a frighteningly high pitched scream from Monáe, the soldier cleared the rift, landing roughly on the cobblestoned roadway leading into town. Her teeth painfully clacked together at the impact. Soot and a petrified expression were plastered on her face.

The brightness of the outside world was jarring. She squinted in order for her eyes to become accustomed to the sudden onslaught of light. She recounted the heavy clouds that had permeated the sky when she first entered the building. Now the cumulonimbus was coming in patches. The ground had a slick covering, a clear indicator of the island's inconsistent harvest weather patterns. Raising her head to the sky, she looked on in disbelief as the shells cut through the air, the marine fort bursting into a collage of flaming debris and swirling dust. She felt as if her soul was crawling its way up her throat and hung from her lips- a staunch sense of relief pouring out of her.

 _I was there_. The base was gone. Her island was shaking. _I was just there._

Buildings raced by her, the forearm pushing into her abdomen at every step. She fell into a bearable momentum as the soldier turned down another street, bringing them closer to the town square. The rows of houses fluctuated in their time of deconstruction. Tree branches pushed through broken windows. Some structures were laid on their side, completely ridden with bullet holes. The smell of smoke was growing. "Where are we going?" She yelled.

"Away from here. There's a ship by the ports."

Wait. No. "My mother is still here," she said.

The man's pace faltered. Incredulously, he seemed like he was choking on this fact. "You still have living family here. What are they still doing on this island?"

She had already gone over this. "We are a funeral service." Did he really think her to be an orphan? "I'm not leaving my ma."

"But the- _ahhh_ " And she was airborne, flailing her arms and landing shoulder-first on the cracked ground. Her eyes began to water. Clutching her shoulder, she could feel the grit imbedded in the pulled skin. She could feel everything around her. Lorelle was on crumbling in on itself, and burning like every other day.

Above her, the red wood clock tower cast a long shadow. The wood restraints at its base creaking dangerously, and its body swayed against the blasts of each mortar that crept closer.

Looking up, the giant monolith seemed to sashay towards the remaining buildings that still stood. Her teeth clenching as she crawled to the fallen man, grasping at the uniform sleeves. _Please wake up_. He continued to lay face down in the dirt.

Another restraint gave way from the base of the tower. The nauseatingly whining sound of pulled wooden beams caused Monáe to turn her head skyward. The clock tower's face loomed. Its hands had stopped moving since the start of the war, the circular glass cracked, but still maintaining the same shape of an iris and it began falling. Falling. _Falling_.

This was the most inopportune time for Monáe to recount insignificant things. But as the mind habitually reminds its host of odd limericks or embarrassing moments, Monáe found that she was recounting the overheard lore of the island.

During funerals, people tend to talk to talk about angels. Celestial beings. Awe inspiring creatures that entrapped the simple minded and had an awful strength for those who dared opposed them. Monáe would press her face into the pews and listen as strangers talked about how the mightiest had six wings, eyes scattered across their body that blinked in synchronism, teeth everywhere. She had never heard of anything as… abstract as an angel before, she had never seen an angel before. But she was certain- with how many had described their power- one had appeared before her in a flash of white.

His body was four times her size and he looked like an old man with the grey hair that covered his head, wrapping around his lips and tickling his chin, but with the force of a clock tower bearing down on his back, he didn't even flinch. Shadows obstructed his eyes- but there was something unseen coming off of him in waves- something uneasy. Power. The raw strength caused Monáe to feel faint, and she clung tighter to the fallen marine. Monáe couldn't quite recognize the sound that came out of her mouth long after the debris had settled.

Smoke still swam in the main town square, coiling around her ankles and invading her head. The old man shifted, moving the decimated ruins of the tower off to the side. Another cloud of dust rose again. She could feel the grim under her nails. Though the haze, the man's teeth were bared, his lips pulled so wide that she couldn't discern if it was a smile.

"I'm going to be a grandfather!" his voice boomed above all the violence. Monáe flinched back, terrified and confused. "A grandfather. I don't even know the kid's name yet." And then he started crying.

That was it. That was the straw that broke the island girl's back. Between having a forearm shoved into her gut and the entire stress of the burning of Lorelle, Monáe had held off her nausea long enough. She tucked her knees close to her chest and emptied her stomach's contents frightfully close to the unconscious soldier's head. Her throat felt raw and burned.

Beside her, the soldier stirred.

"Vice Admiral Garp?" his voice was weak.

The man in question ignored the soldier and, instead, came over to Monáe and, instead, held her up by the armpits like she weighed the same as a doll. He seemed to be in his own world, imagining a different person in her place. _Rude._ From her view she could see her entire town. Flat and smoking. She looked to the water where her house was only to see no standing structures. The weightless sensation that had overtaken her was beginning to calm and the heaviness set in. There was no gunfire, but she still knew how vulnerable she was- being held as the tallest thing on the island. Even the golden forests were leveled.

"M-my island…" she mumbled.

"What was that?" the Vice Admiral said. That was when she noticed all the medals covering the left breast of his impossibly white uniform. Hadn't the rubble besmirched it somehow? Cinders were still rising from the outskirts of the town and a chill drizzle was beginning to set in. Each water drop from the sky seemed to grow larger until a steady downpour began. The signs of fire were still present in the scorch marks on the houses, but even the flames were dying into mist. She was brought down to eye level with the old marine. "I have a ma still…and an order form…a-and work to do…"

He shifted the girl's entire weight to one hand, comfortably holding her against his uniform and reached for the crumpled paper in her hand. He ripped it down the middle when Monáe found that her hands were unable to uncurl. White, bushy brows almost connected with how much the older man frowned, squinting at the blurred writing. Monáe pressed her face under the lapels of his jacket, hiding from the rain. The man smelled of a bakery and sea salt. Not an odd combination of someone who held a comfy position on a ship. "You're the undertaker here?"

She shook her head. "Uh…no. That's my ma."

"There was a woman at the docks." The old marine spoke lowly, carefully. "Refused to leave on the refugee ship. She was screaming something fierce. Something about her kid being by the marine base for the body count…" Monáe perked up. The man scratched his head. "Awful place to send a kid- in my opinion. I would never send my grandson to a main target of a last push attack from Mono Lai. Of course, civilians aren't really given that information." He mumbled the last part.

"Wha- _ah!_ " Monáe gripped the white suit as the old man turned suddenly, bending down to grab the other marine by the back of his uniform. With surprising ease, the Vice Admiral tossed the fully grown man over his shoulders and strode towards the docks.

"I'm not too goods with kids. But I'm going to change that. Whether they look like a lump of coal," Monáe was knocked into his side, "or like the splitting image of me."

Enthusiasm practically poured off the man, and all Monáe felt like she could do was bask in it.

"The boy won't even know what to do with all the love I'm going to give him."

The Vice Admiral's smile was so bright that she had to look away or risk being blinded.

The war was over and, honestly, Monáe didn't know what she was going to do with herself.


End file.
